


Stars

by Chachachai



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: !!!!!, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Scientists, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cute, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, He was a quantum theorist researching gravity, Kidlock, M/M, Quantum, So excited, Stars, The whole thing is happy, everything, gravity - Freeform, he relearns it with John, hint: it's gravity, quantum physics, sherlock as a kid, teen!lock, this is quietly canon, we find the one problem Sherlock could never solve, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chachachai/pseuds/Chachachai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always been able to solve problems.<br/>The real problem was finding one that was interesting.</p>
<p>This is the story of the one true challenge that Sherlock found: the stars.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>AU where Sherlock is a quantum physicist in his early 20's, then quits and deletes everything he knows about the universe when he can't work out gravity. He later meets John, who re-ignites his bizarre love for the unsolvable, and adventure ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic!!! Completely un-betaed, so be prepared for anything! I'm aiming for this to be a mid-length happy-ending-but-deep sorta fic, so please hop on for the ride.
> 
> Any input is super welcome!
> 
> Love you guys!! (and merry Christmas)

October 5th, 1982

* * *

* * *

 

      “Mycroft! Mycroft,” shouts the shock of black hair peeking over the velvet sofa. “Have you seen a green smudge anywhere on the carpet?”

      “Brother, dear, I have far too much work to do to be fraternizing with your silly little quests. Please give me some peace,” the low voice perched at the table announces haughtily, “and perhaps I may be able to assist after tea. The gardener’s dog again?”

      “Mycroft,” whines the six year old boy, “you _never_ play anymore!”

      “There are bigger things to do than solving neighborhood problems, Sherlock, as I’m sure you’ll find out. Either way, I believe that you are barking up the wrong tree, forgive my pun. I’d check near the forest border,” the older boy calls after the hastily retreating Sherlock. Shaking his head, he returns to his paperwork, seemingly exhausted by the ten second burst of energy.

      Sherlock sprints out of the study, careening through the cavernous hallways and narrowly dodging the family heirlooms coating the pale walls. He ducks through an inconspicuous white door, around half of the size of the grand entrance to the other rooms. Throwing himself underneath a young woman delivering Mycroft his early afternoon tea, Sherlock runs through the maze of servant corridors.

      “Oh, Sherlock!” calls the girl. “What are you up to this time?”

      Silence is returned. He can feel his brain turning and whirring, finally reaching the speed he so loves.

       _Connect the dots. Solve the mystery._

      Missing dog. Paw prints outside, two feet apart each, slow, relaxed stride. No rustling of the soil outside of the gardener’s cottage. So not a dognap. Last seen 3 hours ago. Had not eaten food left in dog bowl.

      Hadn’t _eaten_. There had to be some significance, perha-

      Suddenly the world rushed up to meet his face and everything went dark.

      Sherlock tripped over a rug, falling flat on his face after flying roughly a metre.

      “Sweetie! Oh my dear, goodness, you poor boo! How ever did you manage that one, honey?”

      Sherlock lolls his head toward the floating voice, mumbling incoherently. The warmth of another person envelops him, surprisingly softly.

      Ew. She’s _hugging_ him.

      “You’re head’s bleeding, sweetheart, I’m going to find a place to sit you down, ok?”

      Smell of flour. High pitched voice. Oil stains. Apron.

      Sophie, the kitchen maid, carries Sherlock through the whitewashed corridors and into a bright, warm, delicious room. He can hear her tittering around, moving boxes and popping lids.

      “Ah! Here we go! This is my last plaster, darling, you’ve really got to start watching where you’re going sprinting though those little passageways.” Sophie sounds completely unconcerned.

      There’s a light pressure on the left side of his forehead, and he can feel his curls being brushed to the side. His eyes are prickling, so he pinches them shut even tighter than before.

      “Baby, oh you poor thing! It’s not very deep, you know. Barely more than a graze!”

      Now, Sherlock may be the slightest bit scared, but the one thing he _isn’t_ is a baby. Babies are idiots, and no one in their right mind could ever call him an idiot! Sherlock is special, and he’s better than everyone else. So this patronising, pathetic excuse for a human can _sod off_.

      Sherlock throws himself away from the maid, cannonballing dizzily to the nearest exit. The light is stinging his eyes more than the pain from his forehead, and his dark eyelashes squint slightly. He ignores the calls behind him, remembering his original objective.

      _Facts!_ His mind screams. _Where could that dog possibly be?_

      The six year old jogs through the continued maze of white hallways and stops in front of an exit marked ‘Foyer’ in elegant, italic script. Hands clutching his head, Sherlock closes his darting eyes, retreating into his mind.

_What has changed around here?_

      There’s a new butcher delivering the meat on Monday and Friday. Paul, or Pat, whatever his name was, mowed the lawns last night. Mummy went on another spa trip, and Father is gone again on a work trip. The temperature has increased one degree celsius since the same time last week. It’s pheasant hunting season, and everyone is going on a trip tomorrow morning.

_Wait_. What had Mycroft said about looking near the edge of the forest?

      Forest. Hunting. Baby pheasants. Hunting _dog_.

      Stupid. _Stupid_.

      Sherlock sprints into the foyer and out into the main entrance, dodging the 14th century Ming vase with practised ease. He wrenches the massive doors open, and giggles with glee. The dog’s amber coat is just visible behind the trees.

      Sherlock is too small to be able to return the solid wooden doors back to their original place, but surely Gerard will manage to shut them after him. The many bonuses of having a doting staff to look after you includes having most physical limitations of being 3 foot 6 inches eradicated.

      The boy bounds down the main lawn, leaving dark footprints in the freshly cut grass, calling, “Gladstone! Gladstone, you silly puppy!”

      Gladstone lifts his snuffling brown nose in Sherlock’s direction, and murmurs a soft bark in his direction. Pawing through the undergrowth, they meet at the edge of the grass.

      “You’ve been very busy. Bloodstains on your mouth, how many? Four birds? No, three. Where are they? Take me there!” Sherlock demands, and Gladstone eagerly obeys, tail flopping back and forth.

      The pair wander through the forest, approaching a lush clearing. Late autumn wildflowers poked through the grass as the wind rustled them. Sherlock turns his head to a voice floating through the trees as well, coming from the gardener’s cottage barely a hundred metres away.

      “Wow, Sherlock! You’ve found him already? You’re gettin’ very good at this, mate! I think this one was just pushin’ four minutes,” an older man, dressed in overalls, calls out, full of awe.

      The tiny boy sighs, looking in the other direction. _I need a new problem, a real problem_ , he thinks.

 

 


End file.
